Naive soul
Dreaming down this forest,
At dusk in quiet mumble,
White light trees might need,
But soon, the dark will stumble.

Towards the oak tree,
An owl throws its gaze,
And draws a circular blaze,
Trying to set specters free

This sly ginger owl with walnut dim claws,
Wonders and wanders down the oak,
With a spry glide then, takes my soul
Gone with the owl, it is now alone.

My soul, I cannot find it anymore,
The oak is no more, it has morphed,
And in hopes of spotting the owl
My eyes have been torn up.

© Marty A.P. All rights reserved